While shepherds washed their
socks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came
down,
And passed the soap around.
“Fear not”, said he, for
mighty suds,
Had filled their washing sink.
“Persil washes whitest of all
And does not leave a stink”.
Good King Wenceslas last
looked out,
From his bedroom window.
Silly fool, he fell out,
On to a pile of red-hot
cinders.
How his bum shone red that
night,
Though the frost was cruel.
Then a poor man came in
sight,
Riding on a mule.
We three kings of Orient are,
One in a bus, and one in a
car,
One on a scooter,
Pipping his hooter,
Wondering where we are.
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